Dark Past
by madAmeSaysWhAt
Summary: Remember at the end of 4x21 where Brennan talks about being locked in the car, and Booth killing himself, and Sweets being abused? Yep. M for abuse and maybe sex. There will be B&B hurt/comfort romance in chapter four. Read and review because I love you.
1. Temperance

It was her second foster home. Her first had been absolutely terrible; the house was run by a middle aged black woman named Nakita Cleveland. She took care of orphaned infants waiting to be adopted. There were ten babies in the household when Temperance had arrived, and the three weeks she stayed there had been nothing but poop and screaming. Truthfully, she was somewhat glad to get out, because even though Ms. Cleveland had been perfectly kind to her, there was only so much screaming a depressed fifteen year old girl could take.

Then she saw her new foster parents.

Mrs. Newman had a frizzy brown perm that seemed to be kept in place by an army of ineffective products. Her thin lips were coated in a thick layer of obviously cheap berry coloured lipstick, her eyes were decidedly boring and brownish grey, and her nails were plastic. She worked at a bank a few streets away. The first sentence she spoke to the scared teenager was something along the lines of "bring your things upstairs, you're bunking with the other girls."

She didn't see Mr. Newman until later in the evening. He was thick. It was really the only way to describe him. His neck was minimal, his body wasn't necessarily fat; just very thick. The only thing about him that seemed small was a pair of wire rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He managed the bank that his wife worked at, but because his job was only to manage and do paperwork, he stayed at home with the foster children for state supervision obligations. His form of supervision involved holing up in his home office.

There were two girls and four boys when she arrived. Lilly and Kristen were the girls she was bunking with, sisters, nine and twelve. They were both petite blondes who had smiled at her shyly when she walked in, but kept absolutely silent. Temperance didn't like emotions she couldn't understand. Lilly and Kristen smiling but not talking made her nervous.

"Hi." Her smoky voice was even more unsure aloud. Kristen looked up from the book she was holding (but not reading).

"Hi." Lilly waved with a stuffed animal, perched on the corner of her top bunk bed. Temperance was briefly glad that she had her own bed, safely on the ground.

"I'm, um, Temperance Brennan. I'm fifteen." Kristen introduced herself and her sister in the same fashion. Brennan pointed to the stairs, visible through the door. "Are the Newmans nice?"

Lilly shook her head. "They hit sometimes."

Lilly was right. They did hit sometimes.

Paul was a nice kid, really, only eleven. He had AD/HD, which not only made him a tough housemate, but extremely irritable when his schoolmates teased him for one reason or another. He got agitated and stressed when this happened, and instead of talking to him about it, Mrs. Newman would get angry.

Paul had stubbed his toe. Combined with his obvious stress of the day and the intense pain, Paul yelled. Loudly. Mrs. Newman, who had been feeding Ben in his little plastic high chair, turned around and punched him in the face without hesitation. Paul flew backwards into the table, knocking plastic forks and paper napkins askew. Mrs. Newman pinched the bridge of her nose and squinched up her eyes.

"Clean it up, someone." Temperance wasn't sure if she referred to the scattered cutlery or the crumpled child.

In an attempt to run a productive household, each foster child had a chore to do, rotating each night. Setting the table, serving everyone, cleaning up the house, doing the dishes, vacuuming, and caring for baby Ben; these tasks had to be done every day before lights out at ten, spread throughout the ages of six through sixteen. Supposedly the kids had Sunday off, but the Newmans wouldn't do the chores themselves, and in fear of rat infestation, Temperance and Clyde, a thin and pimply boy a year older than her, took care of everything.

Mrs. Newman would hit with sheer force and without thought if anyone complained or didn't do the chores to her standards. Lilly was smacked for missing a dust bunny near the couch on her vacuuming day, and Temperance herself was given a vicious punch for not having a clue how to change Ben. (Kristen later showed her on a stuffed animal).

Mr. Newman didn't assist with the disciplining at all. This was for the best, seeing as his fists were around the size of a small pig.

"Temperance Brennan, hurry up on those dishes, some kids need to be washed." Temperance stood from her place with Paul on the couch. He had been eagerly trying to explain Star Wars to her. She had been listening for only a distraction.

Only a week in the Newman home and she absolutely hated it. Her heart had been swiftly torn in half when her parents abandoned her, shortly followed by her big brother, but the state didn't seem concerned with her pain at all. She had been shoved onto a metaphorical conveyor belt and straight into the foster system. She was beyond ashamed to admit it but she had wet the bed twice since her arrival; waking up to the acrid smell of her own urine was bad enough without having to silently strip her bed and wash them in the bathroom sink as best she could without waking a houseful of strangers. She curled up in a ball away from the wet splotch, unsure of how to dry them, and sobbed into her pillow for the rest of the night. She didn't belong here. She belonged in her house. With her mother and father and big brother Russ, who would pull her into a hug and watch silent movies with her on their rugged old couch until her sheets were clean and her mind was wiped of sad thoughts.

She trudged to the sink, willing back a fresh bout of tears (be strong, be strong, be strong), and picked up a scratched green ceramic dish. The taps squeaked as she turned them on.

She was aware of Mrs. Newman hovering behind her back from the sound of Ben wailing in her arms. The woman had obviously had a terrible day at work; her mood was usually impatient, but now it could be only considered stony.

"Kristen, come here and take the baby, apparently a fifteen year old girl is too inadequate to wash dishes without instruction." Temperance's cheeks flared red hot. She'd done the dishes three nights a week at home. Russ had four. He was the big brother.

"Jesus Christ, Temperance, that water couldn't kill a germ. You gotta have it hotter." She cranked up the red knob, twisting the blue off. Her pale hands flinched away at the sudden change.

"Mrs. Newman, I can't wash dishes in that… I'll get a burn." The woman laughed at her, grabbing her wrists and forcing them under the scalding stream. The water bit at her hands.

"I swear to God, if you don't wash these damn dishes the way I tell you to… I'm going to punish you. I'm going to punish you bad, little darling." Her blood turned to ice at the sickly stench of alcohol on her foster parent's breath.

She inhaled deeply, trying to ignore the tears stinging her eyes and the sink boiling her hands and the woman's eyes boring into her back. She carefully picked up the previously discarded green dish, squirting a bit of soap on and reaching for the cloth with her other hand.

The liquid soap slowly trickled down the plate, over her fingers, coating the back of her hand. She took the cloth and rubbed the dish slowly in a circle, now gasping from the pain at the heat.

It happened much too fast.

The third swirl of the small towel jostled her grip on the plate; she fumbled for just a moment; the soap lubricated her thin fingers; and the dish flipped up into the air briefly before clattering down onto the counter, shattering into countless pieces.

The world seemed to still for a moment.

"I-I'm so sorry, I…"

"You little bitch!" Mrs. Newman grabbed her upper arms and yanked her backwards roughly. "You broke my dish! YOU BROKE MY DISH!" She smacked her hard on the cheek, kicking her leg, pulling her hair. Temperance began to cry, struggling weakly.

"Stop, please, stop…" The other children were huddled in the doorway of the living room, watching in horror at the sight. Mrs. Newman had never been this angry before.

The beating continued, for how long Temperance didn't know, until the enraged woman stilled, glaring down onto her crumpled body.

"Come on. Get up." She assisted the girl with a fist in her hair, jerking her up. Temperance was bruised and bloody, salt from her tears stinging the cuts and burns on her hands. Mrs. Newman took her arm and dragged her outside.

Temperance was helpless to resist as her foster 'mom' opened the trunk to her ancient car and stuffed her in. She tried to break free, screamed at the top of her lungs, kicked and bit and scratched. But she wasn't the stronger one. She was easily overpowered.

The trunk slammed shut and her world dissolved into blackness.

She screamed a few times, but her aching lungs and throat gave out after awhile. She was curled on her side in the fetal position, and could see the only light was from the tiniest of cracks for the keyhole. Her face was near it and she smelled the outside air, sticking her thumb in her mouth (a habit she had broken when she was seven) and crying until she fell into an uneasy sleep.

When she woke, it was dark outside. Her stomach growled at her. Painfully thirsty. She began clawing at the keyhole, the place where the door met the car, kicking the roof of the trunk, feeling around for any means of escape. When she started sucking her thumb again she tasted blood, oozing from her fingernails, result from the scratching.

_I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die. _

_I want my mommy. _

Child services came for a surprise check on the Newmans. Lilly saved her life, taking the man aside and whispering that Temperance Brennan had been locked in the trunk of a car for two days now.

She was covered in dried blood and her own urine when the car door was jimmied open by the government man. Her fingernails were all gone. She had apparently ripped out some of her hair from the stress. She drank three full bottles of water and sat in shock in the back seat of the mans' car as he whisked her away.

A piece of paper with two names was slipped under the lining of her shoe that night, in a new bed, with a new foster family. She closed her eyes and let the tears just flow.


	2. Sweets

**Here is Sweets' part… probably not as well written as the Brennan part because I dislike writing the abuse of small children… review maybe please? **

It took a lot of courage for the small boy to pad his way silently across the hall. Goblins and ghosts lurked everywhere in the shadows. He risked a lot to visit his older sister.

The screaming and yelling had woken him about an hour ago; howls and roars so terrible they could have been made by banshees, a really scary monster from his big book of imaginary creatures.

His mommy and her boyfriend were in love, or that's what she told him. He didn't understand why two people in love would fight so much. But they fought. A lot. Every night Chris would bring home big glass bottles that smelled like pee (maybe it was pee) and he would drink with Mommy. They would drink a lot of the pee juice… so much that their brains started to get all fuzzy. They would get angry, really angry… and if he didn't get to bed super quick, they would get angry at him.

Or at least that's what his sister told him.

He slipped inside her bedroom and tiptoed up to the side of her bed, touching her shoulder gently. She rolled over and squinted at him, smiling a little.

"Clo? Are you awake?" She scooted aside and pulled back the blankets. Her bed was tiny, but just big enough for a scrawny four year old to squeeze in.

"Hey, Lancey. Can't sleep?" He shook his head.

"No. Mommy and Chris are really loud." She gently began to play with his dark curls.

"You shouldn't have come in here, Lancelot. Chris wouldn't want you sneaking out of your bed." He snuggled into her squishy chest, her comforting smell enveloping him.

"I know. But you said I could sleep with you if I had a nightmare." She sighed and wrapped an arm around him.

"Of course, Lancelot. I love you. I'll always love you. Until the day I die."

His little hands move up to gently stroke her head; the smooth, hairless skin covering her scalp is soft, and he likes it. "I love you too, Chloe. Forever."

It's the day after his fifth birthday. Mommy got him a plastic truck. He liked it very much.

So much, that he brought it to the funeral.

It was strange to see his sister just laying there, in a big box, on top of a big hole in the ground. She was wearing a white dress. She hated white. Her favourite color was yellow.

Her head, bare from countless chemo treatments, had a soft brown wig on it. He didn't like that. Chloe never wore a wig; she wore her hairless body with pride, not even bothering to use a bandana.

Everyone at the affair was wearing black and crying as they listened to a preacher talk. He went on and on about how the brave little girl had spent her entire life battling leukemia, loving her mother and adoptive father (he never mentioned her little brother), and how seventeen was such a short number of years to live.

Just when the lid of the coffin was about to close, he ran up and pushed the man aside. He bent down, the tips of his toes barely touching the ground as he kissed her cheek. Her skin was cold.

Silently, he placed his brand new truck on her stomach.

He found his mommy sitting at the kitchen table. A box of tissues lay on its' side near her hand, clutching a damp piece of the Kleenex. He carefully put a hand on her knee. She knocked it away.

"I should have aborted her ass. That girl…" she ripped the tissue in half, "has caused me nothing but pain."

"Mommy?"

She continued, ignoring her son. "My daddy kicked me out when he found out I was knocked up. I was only sixteen when I had her, and her daddy left me with nothing. I had no money. Then that little _bitch_ I had got sick." She threw the tissue box at the counter, knocking over a glass figure of an angel. It shattered on the kitchen floor. "She did nothing but suck my goddamn money from the time she got sick. I should have aborted her. And I should have aborted you." She turned and punched her son in the face, knocking him flat on his back.

He started crying immediately, half from shock, and half from the pain. Blood dripped down from his nose. She'd hit him before, but never like this.

"YOU FUCKING LITTLE SHIT… I CAN'T STAND TO LOOK AT YOU… WHY DID I EVER HAVE YOU…" The words blended in his mind. She was kicking him. All over. Kicking. Hitting. Stomping. Hurting.

He curled up into a ball and waited for it to end.

"Chloe… help…"

His mom wasn't the only one angry with him. Chris hated him too.

It always started small; he would accidentally miss the toilet, for instance, even if it was just a little droplet on the seat. Chris grabbed his belt and started beating; without explanation, without restraint.

Six months after Chloe was gone, it started happening every day. He would run up to his room after kindergarten and hide under his bed, in the closet, squeeze behind the bookshelf… anything to avoid being seen. Because if they saw him, they would find something to be angry about.

One day, Chris got a whip. The whip hurt most.

He would knee him in the back, pinning him to the ground, and rip off his shirt. He'd whip his back and shoulders until he bled. If he were in a really terrible mood, he'd throw salt on the cuts he made. One time, Chris pinned him while his mother slowly cut slices up and down the back of his thighs. It was because he didn't know how to clean the blood off his shirt after his last beating.

It was really those wounds that saved him.

He couldn't run correctly in his first grade gym class… the school nurse brought him in to check out his legs. One glance at the perfectly symmetrical, perpendicular half-healed scars and little Lancelot was swept away by child services.

He told the people everything. He cried. A nice lady held him.

It was going to be okay.

"Hi Lance… I'm Gail. This is Peter." A pause. "We want to be your mom and dad."

Lance looked her right in the face.

"You're old." She smiled.

"I know, sweetheart. But we can still be a mom and a dad." She hesitated. "You can at least come and live with us. For as long as you want to." He gripped his bag of things tighter.

"So, I can stay in your house? Forever?" She smiled and nodded.

"If you want to live with us forever, that's okay. We have a nice big TV, and you can have your very own room with a nice big bed and blue walls." He looked at her a little bit longer. Then, he smiled.

"Okay."


End file.
